Soul to Soul (RUSH, Inc. Book 2)

by Carol Caiton

  He looked toward the other two men. "Jeremiah, what kind of reading do you have on her?"

  "Right now . . . ." The security chief glanced at his computerized device. "Four point eight. Before you told her to turn around . . . five point six."

  "Five point six," Dalton repeated. He looked back at Rachel. "Normal is somewhere around two point five. I could feel the tension coming off of you."

  Afraid he might call an end to the session she admitted, "The change of position worried me."

  "Why?"

  "Because it made me wonder if something was going to be different this time."

  He nodded. "It is going to be different. I'm going to use two hands. But have I done anything so far that scares you or hurts you?"

  "No. Nothing."

  "Then maybe we should try different positions with each session so the change itself doesn't bring on this tension."

  "Yes. That would probably help."

  "Do you want to quit for today?"

  "No, I'd like to keep going."

  He regarded her, then said, "All right. Hands on the whiteboard, same as before."

  She turned back around, stretched her arms out, and braced her palms on the cool surface.

  "Relax."

  She nodded.

  "Use your safe word."

  She nodded again and his reminder, telling her she was the one in control, eased some of the tension.

  He began again, same as before, only this time it was a slow glide of his hand to her waist.

  She tensed.

  He withdrew.

  She relaxed.

  His hand returned.

  She closed her eyes and listened to the song of his fingers. But when his other hand lightly caressed the other side of her waist, sensation bombarded her.

  As though knowing it was too much, he drew back, removing both hands.

  Over and over they played the same game, advancing, retreating, tensing, withdrawing . . . . It took so much time for her to adjust, the session was almost at an end before she was finally able to accept the placement of both his hands at her waist, then enjoy the sensations he aroused.

  As always, they were in motion, the circling of a thumb on her back, the whisper of a caress as he brushed his fingers across her abdomen . . . . But when his fingers feathered lightly beneath the swell of her breast, then turned to gently cup it, sudden panic tore through her in a whirling spiral and exploded without conscious thought.

  "No!"

  Twisting around, hand already drawn back in a fist, she struck. It was a response rooted in years of self-preservation, lacking forethought and reason, the need to escape a pinpoint in her tunnel-vision of fear.

  She caught him on the chin, pummeling her other fist against his chest before he snared and locked both arms around her.

  "Rachel."

  His voice was calm, a gentle murmur of her name. But her panic had reengaged to focus on his greater size and the strength of the arms holding her in place. She was unable to connect with the familiarity of his voice, unable to attempt any perception of his identity.

  "Rachel! Let her go and step back, Dalton. Rachel, it's all right."

  A scream had risen up from deep inside, but she was abruptly set free and what came out was a soulful sob. She stumbled back, worked her way along the edge of the whiteboard to put distance between her and the others.

  "Rachel."

  The soothing voice belonged to Dr. Zeman this time.

  Gasping for breath, tears running down her face, it took several seconds before his concern began to penetrate her fear, before her surroundings edged into focus, and the adrenaline racing through her system began to ebb.

  She caught her breath, took several gulps of air, and comprehension finally began to settle over her. She glanced over at Jeremiah. He looked guarded and disturbed. Then to Dalton and . . . .

  No! No! No! She'd punched him in the face! She'd been beating at his chest!

  A crushing sense of failure squeezed her chest. "I'm sorry," she choked out. "I'm so sorry."

  He nodded. "You didn't do any damage. I'm fine. But I've been wondering if you'd do better working with someone who's trained to do this."

  Trembling, still fighting for control, she brushed at her tears. "Please," she said, "there is no one else. No one can touch me like you do. And no one would touch me where you do and I need that. I need to learn the beauty of it—like your other touches. If we could just go slower . . . ."

  She took a long calming breath and said, "The instinct to fight was so sudden, I didn't have the presence of mind to remember the safe word. I didn't know I'd react like that," she told him. "I had no idea." She drew another breath and looked into his eyes. "But now that I do, maybe it'll work better if you tie me. You can do that here, can't you? It'll give you the chance to sense my panic and back away before I strike out . . . if it happens again."

  "Rachel," Dr. Zeman began, and she knew by the consoling tone of his voice that he was going to refuse.

  She turned to him, prepared to plead. "Please don't take this away from me. I've been making progress. Five minutes is miraculous! I'm strong. Please don't take it away."

  She faced Dalton again, drew a breath and forced a calm she didn't feel. "Please . . . will you tie me so I can't react like that again?"

  He was uncertain. She could see it in his eyes. But he was wavering. He looked over at Dr. Zeman with a questioning brow.

  "What did her vitals look like, Jeremiah?" Dr. Zeman asked.

  "It was a good reading. Seven point two. High, but no higher than someone needing to cool down in a holding room." He looked over and met Rachel's eyes. "We intended to push the envelope today so I could get a solid range for programming your chip." He smiled. "I got more than I expected, but it gave me a wider range to work with. However, if Dalton's going to put you in cuffs, I'll want a couple more readings."

  Dr. Zeman took a minute to consider. Then he nodded, sighed and looked at Rachel. "Clear it with the legal department and we'll give it a try."

  More tears sprang to her eyes and she swiped them away. "Thank you."

  He nodded. "Nothing more until the paperwork is on my desk."

  "I'll walk over to Admin and set an appointment with Mason's secretary before I leave." She turned to Dalton again. "Thank you. I mean that. And I'm so sorry for punching you."

  "Not a problem." He gave her half a smile. "You hit like a girl." He switched his gaze to Dr. Zeman. "We're done here today?"

  "Yes. I'll let you know when all the legalities are in order."

  "Good enough."

  When Dalton left the room, Jeremiah Case picked up the device that had probably given her a second chance and followed him out. Dr. Zeman gathered up his pen and clipboard. "After you've set up your appointment with Mason, come see me at my office, all right?"

  She knew he'd want to talk about what had happened, but she was willing to do whatever he asked. "Yes, okay."

  Then he, too, left and she stood where she was, listening to the quiet of the empty classroom and wiping away the remaining tears. The tension in her muscles eased and she leaned her head to the side, resting it on the cool, hard whiteboard. After a minute or so, she sighed, straightened, and walked over to the desk where she'd left her clothes. How could she have punched Dalton like that? She might punch like a girl, but she would have continued fighting and punching until she wore herself out. It was a wonder he'd agreed to keep working with her.

  * * *

  Michael pulled his hands away from the spiny trunk of the palm tree and sucked in a hard, frustrated breath. This was wrong. What she was doing was wrong and he knew it all the way down inside.

  Her objective might make sense and Dalton was good. But she was too innocent for this. Any other woman would have been lost in sensation under Dalton's hands. He'd seen it happen. And Rachel had been, but only until that hand went for her breast.

  Michael had known it, felt it, as soon as things started to go south. The sec
ond she froze up, he froze up right along with her. He'd told himself he didn't want any rights were she was concerned, but that hadn't stopped him from latching onto the tree trunk when Dalton slid a palm under her breast. For a second there, he'd wanted to slam his own fist into the guy's face. It wasn't personal though. He just felt a certain degree of involvement here.

  Still, even he had known Rachel wasn't ready for that yet. He'd been watching every one of her sessions, knew it every time she reached her limit. He could feel her tension all the way out here. And Dalton always felt it too. So why hadn't he felt it this time? He was the one touching her, damn it.

  Stepping back from the tree, he lifted one hand to scrape the sweat off his forehead . . . and stared. He lifted the other and stared at it as well. They were covered in blood. Both of them.

  He looked at the palm tree, at the protruding sheaths that had cut into his skin. He was bleeding pretty good so he couldn't tell how deep he'd sliced himself. Terrific. How was he supposed to work like this?

  He shot a last glance through the windows and saw Rachel slide her purse strap onto her shoulder. She'd be okay, he told himself. These sessions weren't working for her and now that she knew it, she'd stop coming to RUSH.

  He turned around and started picking his way back to the main path. Blood dripped from his fingers when he pushed a gigantic leaf out of the way. So now he had to go over to Medical Services. They'd patch him up, but then they'd poke around at the cut beneath his eye again and he'd end up leaving there in worse shape than he was in right now.

  Why the hell couldn't anyone patch up the human soul?

  CHAPTER 10

  Simon had a choice. He could come up with an excuse for missing this morning's board meeting, or he could sit across the table from Ethan and conduct business as usual. Neither option was appealing, but the thought of backing out had a cowardly flavor to it so he gathered up his report and started for the conference room. He probably wasn't the only one who wanted to avoid this meeting. There were going to be some difficult and uncomfortable moments for everyone.

  Unfortunately, he was going to have to let the others know that he and Ethan both shared a blue link with Nina. And once he did, their view of his interference and subsequent marriage—however unscrupulous—would soften. They'd recognize that fighting his attraction to her would have been like trying to steer a hurricane . . . that the end result had been inevitable.

  Simon was human enough and bitter enough to begrudge that. But he understood it as well. Beneath all the resentment churning at his insides, he knew Ethan had fought his attraction to Nina for as long as he'd been able to.

  Still, understanding the whys and wherefores didn't change the outcome. Nor did it lessen the resentment. Hence, it gnawed at him to give this gift of exoneration. Whisking Nina off to Las Vegas for a quickie wedding had been a calculated move and a hell of a blow. Simon wanted the guilt of that to sit on Ethan's shoulders for a good long while. But that wasn't going to happen. Ethan would see the blue link for himself once he logged onto his account and immediately understand the futility of trying to resist her.

  Midway along the corridor the elevator doors opened and Hannah stepped out, her long blonde hair softly wavy today. He was usually able to avoid her—not difficult since she was Elliott's secretary and her office was at the opposite end of the building.

  But he'd been running into her more often lately. They'd crossed paths a number of times and he'd probably seen more of her during the last two months than he had during the entire past year. He knew why. The new mall had just opened and she'd been busy coordinating various departments and subcontractors. But she particularly annoyed him now. Maybe that wasn't so odd. He'd been watching her for two and a half years, waiting for their files to link, only to learn she was yet another virginal female employed by RUSH.

  So Hannah didn't belong here. She should either activate her file or move on. RUSH needed experienced women who wanted to participate in the system.

  Striding down the corridor, taking in the clingy tank-top dress she wore that revealed way too much of a too appealing body, he had a tough time calling up a reasonable tone of voice. And Miss Hannah Breckenridge became aware of that in a split second. The ready smile that would have sparkled in her eyes had he been anyone else died as soon as she saw him. She gave a short, quick nod, courteously acknowledging him, then turned away and tried to scurry along the corridor in her shiny, multi-colored high heels. He almost smiled. Almost.

  "Hannah." It wasn't a greeting because it wasn't meant to be.

  She stopped on the spot, teetering slightly. Then she turned and pasted a smile on her face. "Yes?"

  When he reached her, he deliberately lowered his eyes to three incredible inches of exposed cleavage. A rosy flush quickly spread over that expanse of creamy skin and when he looked up again, it had risen to her hairline.

  He cocked an eyebrow. "If you don't want men to look, then dress like the professional you're supposed to be."

  It didn't surprise him to see all that color suddenly pale. Her lips drifted apart, but she didn't try to argue with him.

  Good. Point taken. In the future maybe he and every other male in the building could pass her in the hall without it resulting in a hard-on.

  Message delivered, he continued on his way and saw that all six of the others were waiting for him, including Ethan. He wasn't late, but even Michael was seated at the table, tapping his pen against the wrinkled mini notepad that somehow met his needs. The cut beneath his eye looked as though it was healing, as was the multi-colored bruise on Oliver's jaw. Malcolm's right hand was still wrapped in gauze, which probably irritated the hell out of him, as did his own bruised ribs when he stood up or sat down. All in all though, they'd come away from that fray relatively unscathed. He glanced once at Ethan, noted the gold wedding band on his left hand, and looked away.

  "All right, then," Malcolm said, opening the meeting. He looked directly at Ethan and said, "Let's get this matter of discipline out of the way first, shall we? These are the facts as I see them. One. Simon accepted a blue link notification with the intent to pursue that link to its fullest implications. Two. When Nina chose to leave RUSH, Ethan provided lodgings to ensure Simon had access to her. Three. Ethan developed feelings for Nina himself and began interfering with Simon's pursuit of her. Four. The board issued a reprimand with regard to his infraction. And five. Ethan chose to ignore that reprimand, resulting in his marriage to Nina." He glanced around the table. "Does anyone dispute those facts?"

  No one responded. They were all familiar with the situation. Painfully so.

  "Ethan," Malcolm turned to his left, "do you have anything you'd like us to consider?"

  Briefly, Ethan looked across the table at Simon, then shook his head. "No. Nothing."

  Malcolm nodded once. "We'll go right to the vote then. The penalty was set at six percent of your shares or a monetary amount equal to the value of six percent. Mason, feel free to step in if I'm missing anything."

  "You've covered it."

  "All right—"

  "I've got something to add to this," Oliver interrupted, sitting up straighter. "When we arrived at that figure, six percent was the penalty for interfering. But this—" He gestured between Ethan and Simon. "What happened here was no minor infraction. This was Simon's future." He looked directly across the table at Ethan. "None of us ever wanted blue thrown into the mix. But the fact that Simon was matched to Nina on a level that high, then cheated of the outcome, is worth a hell of a lot more than six percent. My vote ups the penalty to fifteen percent, monetary, paid directly to Simon."

  Ethan's eyes hardened at being called a cheat. A muscle in his jaw ticked, but he remained silent. Hell, he had to have known what he'd be facing today.

  "I figure that's somewhere around nine million," Oliver added. "Is she worth nine million to you?"

  Ethan sat forward, muscles bunched. He narrowed his eyes, rested his forearms on the table and answered Oliver's stare wit
h his own. "Yes," he said. Then he shifted his gaze to Simon. "But you'll have to wait until I liquidate for a penalty like that."

  Hell. Hell.

  As much as he should be relishing Oliver's backing, Simon couldn't let them vote on fifteen percent.

  He cleared his throat. "I have something to add, as well," he said. "But first, thanks for your support, Oliver. If circumstances were different— " He shook his head, then said, "We have an unusual situation here. Jeremiah was working on something that required a file from Ethan's account, so Mason and I logged into his system." He looked down the length of the table to Malcolm. "When it booted up, Ethan had a link notification. Blue. Status-2."

  "Ah, shit."

  "Not again."

  "This is getting out of hand."

  "I accepted it," Simon told them.

  "You what?" Elliott stared at him, incredulous.

  "I accepted it."

  "Why the hell—"

  "Ah, Jesus."

  Simon looked over at Ethan and held his gaze. He expected to see a reflection of the anger and resentment he felt himself. But that's not what he found. In Ethan's eyes was a mixture of trust and acceptance. Trust and acceptance, damn it.

  Pain assailed him. He shoved it aside. He didn't want Ethan's trust. Accepting that link had been an act of malice and vengeance.

  He tore his gaze away and focused on Malcolm again. "It was Nina," he said. "Apparently she finally declined the link she had with me and her file went to the next relevant male in the system."

  No one spoke. All eyes stared at him—all except Ethan's. Instead, looking at nothing in particular, he sat nodding as though finally comprehending the mysteries of the universe.

  "So you're both compatible with Nina on a status-2 blue level," Elliott said.

  "Yes," Simon confirmed. "I took a walk over to Zeman's office for some insight, and to make a long explanation short, I was the first to receive Nina's blue icon, but Ethan may have been as close as one point behind me."

  For several seconds no one spoke. Malcolm considered him from the head of the table, picked up his silver pen, and said, "Suppose you tell us how you want to wrap this up, Simon. What sort of retribution would satisfy you?"